


Jack of Hearts

by phenylic (tascioni)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Reverse Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:43:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tascioni/pseuds/phenylic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eames pulls a con (sort of) and Arthur is perpetually ten steps ahead (in a way).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jack of Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Jack of Hearts](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/6384) by birddi. 



> **Art Prompt Title:**   
> [Jack of Hearts](http://i.imgur.com/x2YO6.jpg)   
> **Art link:**   
> [Art Master Post](http://birddi.livejournal.com/25262.html)
> 
> So many thanks to em who is a fantastic, fantastic, awesome and ridiculously patient beta, and without whom this would never have been completed. ♥ Also, thank you to cait who was nice enough to encourage me when I wouldn't stop bitching and teased me mercilessly whenever I tried to type a number in caps. And of course, to birddi, who's a wonderful artist and has been so supportive, even when I was a total flake and COMPLETELY deviated from the plot we'd originally discussed.

“So do we have an agreement?”

Eames is in sitting in Nash’s office, which is something about two steps up from supply closet. The city’s undergoing extensive budget cuts and only the people who can afford to buy their own corner offices actually get them. Those who originally couldn’t afford them get something that’s no bigger than a library desk. These are hard times. Especially if you never had an office to work out of in the first place. Which is so unfair because the people who can afford the corner offices wouldn’t have been able to afford them if Eames weren’t such a brilliant investigator with a very flexible set of morals.

Or Nash, but no one agrees with Nash. He’s Nash.

“Of course, we have an agreement,” Eames says, spinning a pen between his fingers. “It’s an unfortunate contingency on my contract—the contract that needs looking over, by the way, because do you know how much the state’s attorney is offering me? Do you know? Because it’s a lot. A lot more than what my modest earnings here will ever amount to.”

“That’s wonderful, Eames,” Nash says curtly, eyes already reverted back to his computer screen. “Case goes to trial next week.”

“Are you even listening?” Eames demands, but Nash already has that face on him, his I’m-ignoring-you-because-this-depo-is-way-more-interesting-than-whatever-it-is-you’re-saying-and-Eames-if-you-don’t-put-down-my-fountain-pen-I-will-stab-you-in-the-dick-with-it face.

Eames lets the pen topple to the floor and extracts himself from the too-tiny cubicle, huffing as dramatically as possible. No one cares, of course. This is Fischer & Bouvier. There are more exciting things than Eames having his hourly temper tantrums. Like the elevators that are currently broken and a total pain in the ass because Fischer & Bouvier is conveniently located on the twenty-third floor. (That, and the Murphy-Gomes depos. God, how would the world survive without those Murphy-Gomes depos?)

“I will get my raise!” he shouts, and it’s really just shit luck that Maurice Fischer walks in at that moment because Maurice Fischer is like a thousand years old, and he doesn’t even come in anymore which Eames is really glad for because he hates Maurice Fischer with the most deep set loathing, and Maurice Fischer feels the exact same way about him.

“Mr. Fischer!” he says, giving the widest grin he can manage. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Fischer cuts him down with a stare, and Eames falters for a moment before doubling the wattage to his die-in-a-fire-smile. “Still here, I see,” Fischer says, lips turned down. It’s a good thing Fischer chooses then to hobble on past because fuck the fucking corner office, Eames will suck anyone’s dick for a chance to throw Fischer out the window.

“Arthur Darling, Eames,” Nash says loudly when Fischer is out of sight, presumably gone to go get himself a new kidney or something. “I need something by the end of tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eames grumbles as he pushes past the exit to the stairwell. “Arthur Darling, what a cock-sucking prick.”

He takes the steps down, two at a time. He waves to the guards at the entrance of the building as he slips through a side exit. He reviews what he knows about Arthur—Arthur Darling, 26, photographed outside Starbucks, photographed inside Starbucks, grande Americano, no sugar, a splash of half and half. How terribly uncreative and unrepentantly American. He recalls the photos, clear silhouettes of a tall man with slicked-back hair and a posture instilled either through military or Catholic school.

*

Eames rounds the corner and walks towards the Starbucks at the middle of the block. He orders himself a black tea and grabs a seat near the doors. At 9:45 am sharp Arthur Darling enters, barely glancing up from the sheaf of papers in his hand. He orders his Americano, moves aside to wait, and Eames watches as he flips through the pages of whatever it is he’s reading, frown deepening with every second. It’s fascinating.

His order is up and Arthur takes his cup with a clipped “Thanks.” Eames sips his tea as Arthur adds just enough cream and re-caps his coffee. He turns, and Eames stretches out his own legs as far as they’ll go and quite effectively trips the poor bloke. Coffee, of course, spills everywhere.

“Sorry!” Eames says quickly, jumping up and grabbing a handful of napkins. “So sorry, darling. Are you okay? Here, let’s throw that out, I’ll buy you another.”

“What?” Arthur says, slightly dazed. He clears his throat with a cough, answering, “No, no, it’s fine.” He bends down and helps Eames wipe up the last of the mess. It’s a good thing, really, that rush hour is over, and the few people still waiting in line merely side-step the two. There’s a wet spot on the knee of his slacks, but he steps away when Eames tries to dab at it, murmuring, “It’s fine, really. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not fine,” Eames insists. “I feel terrible about this. I’m usually not so careless. Let me buy you another drink there, yeah? What was that, an Americano?”

“Uh, yes,” Arthur answers, straightening. His hand tightens around his cup, and Eames notes the angry red of scalded skin. “But really, it’s fine. Accidents happen,” and he’s out the door before Eames can protest.

He counts to six before following, and he spots Arthur on the next block, waiting for the signal. He’s halfway there before Arthur’s moving again, and Eames only has time to see that Arthur’s rolled up his sleeves before Arthur disappears into a crowd. All Eames knows now is that Arthur with a burnt hand, ruined slacks, and a half grande Americano is headed for the Financial District, which makes sense in a way. That much gel could only belong to someone partially responsible for the shit tank of the economy.

He calls it a day and retraces his steps back to the office, just to retrieve his car and make his way home. It’s only after he’s settled into his couch for the day’s CSI marathon that Eames realizes he’s forgotten his tea.

He’s back at the coffeehouse the next day and carefully situates himself so that he can observe the customers without appearing to be too much of a creep. When Arthur enters, Eames keeps himself hidden behind a copy of the day’s paper. He leaves quickly while Arthur waits in the queue and leans against a lamppost outside the shop under the pretense of lighting a fag. The wait inside is long enough that Eames actually ends up finishing his smoke before Arthur emerges.

It’s unfortunate that Arthur’s wardrobe appears to have a lack of bright apparel that would make trailing him easier, but Eames is no amateur. He maintains enough of a distance that he won’t raise alarm, but neither is he far enough that he can’t catch a glimpse of Arthur’s wrist when it swings with each step.

Arthur doesn’t go to the Financial District today, and instead stops at a nearby Citibank and after, heads to a bakery where he purchases a box of pastries.

The next hour is equally uneventful. Arthur spends most of it at the market examining various cuts of beef while Eames reads the nutrition label of a box of Fruit Loops over and over until his eyes cross and the letters run together.

He’s about to give up and call it a day when Arthur finally takes a package and moves away. Eames rubs his eyes, then follows him dutifully over to Produce, where Arthur picks out several apples and oranges.

Eames swallows a yawn and wonders if Arthur isn’t running some underground meth lab or something because there is no way someone’s life could be this dull. Maybe it’s because it’s Wednesday. Wednesdays are always particularly boring.

Except. Except Thursday is just as boring if not more so. Thursday is spent staking out Arthur’s apartment, and for all the time Arthur spends reading and cooking, Eames comes to the conclusion that Arthur is far too relaxed to be working in Finance, even if he seems to adhere to that style of dress. It may have to do with the fact that Eames isn’t one for routines, but he may just literally shoot himself if he has to watch Arthur pace around his living room one more time.

“Are you sure he saw it happen?” he asks when Nash calls in to check up on him. “Because if so, then he must be the most well-adjusted person on the planet.”

Nash sighs. “Just find something, Eames. Do whatever you have to, but I need something to work with.”

“ _I_ need something to work with!” Eames says, indignant, and Nash, the asshole, hangs up on him.

*

Eames has a bit of a reputation. He isn’t one of the best investigators in the business because he has a pair of lips that Angelina Jolie would envy. He’s the best because he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, because he’s constantly getting his hands dirty. The fact that he used to be the one getting investigated helps a bit, too.

Not that he’s ever been wanted for murder or anything, but he’s a con man, through and through, and he’s also a bit of gambler, which is why he tries his luck Saturday morning and stands in line for a coffee he won’t drink. Arthur stands in front of him, unaware.

When Arthur reaches for his card, Eames places a hand on his shoulder and says, “This one’s on me,” and hands the barista a twenty-dollar bill. He watches as Arthur turns, regarding him with a cool gaze.

“That’s not necessary, thank you,” Arthur says shortly.

“Oh, but darling,” he says. “I promised I would. I do still feel terrible about your hand.”

If Arthur recognizes him, he doesn’t show it, but he nods at the girl to ring him up and moves away before she can give Eames the receipt. Eames adds on a “Make that two,” and a “Keep the change,” before slipping back into Arthur’s space.

“Do you always get the same thing?” he asks.

“Yes,” Arthur says firmly, like one would deny an accusation. Eames smiles.

“I am sorry,” he says. “I’ve always been a bit clumsy, but I’ll admit, I want to make sure you aren’t about to sue me—you Americans and your lawsuits, it’s a wonder you’ve the time to use your justice system for its intended purpose.”

Arthur steps away to claim his drink but Eames can see the corners of his lips playing up in a close-lipped smile. “I’m not going to sue you,” he says finally. “Not over coffee.”

“Over lunch, then?” Eames asks, licking his lips.

“No,” Arthur replies. “Not over lunch either.” He leaves Eames to stare after him, taking a long swig from his cup, but Eames wouldn’t be Eames if he hadn’t noticed that Arthur hadn’t added his usual shot of milk.

It’s not a win—but it isn’t a loss, either, and Eames spends the rest of his day cheerfully shouting at Nash to give him a raise. It, of course, goes nowhere, because Nash is a complete miser who refuses to take a 10% budget cut even though Eames does most of his work.

“You’ll give in yet,” Eames says confidently when Nash says, “ _Goodbye,_ Eames.”

He tucks his phone away, taking a moment to pride himself on the fact that his persistence is still one of his better qualities.

*

Eames has a new plan today, one that involves less coffee and more running into Arthur on the way to the gym. He really does hope Fischer & Bouvier will cover his now damaged fender.

“Are you insane?” Arthur asks when he steps out of his car and takes one look at Eames. “No, seriously, are you?”

Eames shrugs and places his elbows on the hood of his car, watching Arthur thoughtfully. “So sorry, darling, but the jury’s still out on that.” Arthur frowns at him, but doesn’t say anything, and Eames says, “Look, as highly unlikely that this may be a coincidence—”

“Because it isn’t?” Arthur interrupts.

“—This is a coincidence.”

Arthur narrows his eyes at him. “I’m not an idiot,” he says when Eames offers him his information. “You’re a stalker, and I don’t plan on letting you see my license.”

“I did damage your car,” but Eames trails off when Arthur snaps a picture of him with his phone.

“Your name is Eames Eames,” Arthur states flatly.

“My parents didn’t want to confuse anyone.”

“By naming you Eames Eames,”

“It’s a good idea in theory.”

Arthur _hmm_ ’s in response, and Eames smiles. “I am sorry about your car,” he says. “Let me have it fixed for you.”

“It’s a dent, and I’ll live. Just like with the coffee. Accidents happen, right Mr. Eames?” His smile is brief, but unimpressed. When Arthur drives away, Eames is left to blink, a little dumbfounded. And then he laughs. And laughs and laughs.

*

So it turns out Fischer & Bouvier has better ways of funneling its money than using it to fix Eames’ car, and Nash doesn’t always spend his days sifting through case file after case file. In fact, today, Nash sort of shouts at him a lot. “I don’t want him dead, Eames!” he yells.

“He’s fine!” Eames retorts. “So his bumper is a bit scratched—I’ve got the perfect excuse to see him again!”

“What, at your arraignment?”

“You watch,” Eames snaps, pointing a finger at Nash who stares back, not the slightest bit intimidated. “I will find something for you.”

“Okay,” Nash says. “Now get the hell out.”

*

There is no arraignment, but when Arthur spots Eames loitering outside Starbucks, he says, “Oh, fuck me,” without meaning to, and Eames makes a beeline towards him. Arthur, in all his wisdom, runs.

He’s rather fast, which Eames realizes belatedly as the distance between them extends for nearly half a block, but Eames knows the side streets and shortcuts of the city better than anyone. Except, Arthur is really fast.

By the time Eames emerges from the alley on 6th and Kingston, Arthur is already pulling open the front gate to his apartment. Eames doesn’t call Nash for a check-in, and by some small mercy, Nash doesn’t call to gloat.

*

It would seem that small mercies enjoy working in his favor because come Tuesday, Eames’ phone rings with an unfamiliar number. “Mr. Eames?” says a voice when Eames answers with a cautious “Hello?”

Eames blinks, and Arthur, misinterpreting the silence, clears his throat and continues. “You ran into my car on Sunday?” he offers.

“Uh,” Eames says intelligently. “Well.”

“Look, if this is the wrong number—”

Eames says “No!” too quickly, and Arthur stops, starts, and stops again.

“Your car?” Eames prompts. “I assume this is about your car?”

He hears a noise like Arthur’s fumbling with his phone and waits patiently for a reply, which comes as a strangled sort of “Yeah,” and “Um”—Arthur clears his throat—“You were—You were willing to pay the damages?”

“Yes,” Eames says, slow enough that it sounds like a question. “Is this you suing me, darling?” he asks, eyes narrowing a fraction. “Because I will pay, but do keep the lawyers out. I hate lawyers.”

Arthur makes a soft noise. “I’m not suing,” he says, and when he doesn’t continue, Eames asks, “Shouldn’t the insurance company deal with this?”

There’s an even longer pause after that, at which point Eames has to check to make sure the connection hasn’t dropped. Eventually, Arthur sighs and says quietly, “I don’t have insurance.” Oh, Eames thinks. This might not be so hard after all.

*

“I’d never would’ve pegged you as a lawbreaker,” Eames says, grinning, when he steps out of his car in the lot of Bob’s Body Shop.

Arthur frowns at him, his arms crossed. He’s dressed in a linen shirt and tan slacks, hair slicked back with too much gel, and he looks so very annoyed. “Hello, Mr. Eames,” he says stiffly. “Thanks for coming.”

“Not at all, darling. What’s the damage?”

“New bumper,” he says. “It’s just, I don’t get my paycheck until the end of the month”—and Eames notes the subtle pink flush of embarrassment that flares across the bridge of his nose— “and I can’t just leave my car here or—“

“It’s fine,” Eames interrupts. “I’ve got you covered.” He winks, salacious, and Arthur glares at him before remembering that Eames is the one doing him a favor here and softens, saying, “Right, right. Thanks.”

Eames smiles at him kindly, before clapping his hands together with a boisterous “Well, I’m starving!” and Arthur blinks in confusion. “I haven’t had breakfast,” Eames explains. “And your car isn’t going anywhere, so yeah,” he concludes. “Let’s eat.”

“No.” The reply is curt and clearly meant to be so, given how Arthur immediately turns away from him, the hard stare back in his eyes.

“I’ll pay,” he cajoles, but that only seems to strengthen Arthur’s resolve.

“No,” Arthur says again. “Apparently, I’m already suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. I’m not going to make it worse.”

“Yes, that’s all very nice, but,” Eames argues. “I’m not actually treating you as a victim, yeah? You’re just someone I’ve happened across constantly.”

“You don’t actually think I believe you, do you?”

“Not in the least,” Eames says. “But that’s my story.”

“And you’re sticking to it?”

“Well, no. I can change it if it’ll make you feel better, but that is my story.”

Arthur turns, his mouth set in a thin line that looks like he’s biting back a laugh. “Really,” he says, causticity lost to amusement.

“I promise to keep my axe-murdering to a bare minimum.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Arthur says, but he smiles then, and Eames thinks that yes, he most definitely hasn’t lost his touch.

“Yes, but a breakfast genocide,” he sighs. “That would be so tasteless.”

Arthur watches him for a good long moment, and Eames carefully keeps his expression innocently blank.

“Okay,” he relents, with an air that suggests he’s still half-heartedly trying to talk himself out of it. “Fine.”

*

They end up at Denny’s because the only other option is McDonald’s, which Arthur vehemently protests even when Eames pointed out that no one does their hash browns like McDonald’s.

“Those things will kill you,” Arthur says, disgusted.

“Well,” Eames deadpans. “That’s one less axe murderer for you to be concerned about.”

Arthur doesn’t answer, but Eames turns his head and sees Arthur biting down a grin. It’s too bad that it slips away as soon as Arthur catches him looking. “Let’s go, then,” he says, stepping out of car. “Since you’re so eager to order a heart attack on rye.”

Eames snorts and follows him out, hurrying forward to hold open the door to the diner for Arthur. Arthur, being Arthur, raises an eyebrow. “How chivalrous,” he comments.

“Ah, you know, proper English charm,” Eames replies smoothly.

Arthur hums, distracted in responding by the appearance of a cheery waitress who shows them to one of the many empty booths. She rattles off a list of specials and sets down their menus. “Any drinks to start you off?”

“Coffee, please,” Arthur says.

“Hm,” Eames murmurs. “I’ve been told to start healthy so I think I’ll have a orange juice.” He smiles at the girl, easy, and she laughs.

“A coffee and an orange juice,” she repeats. “All right, I’ll be back to take your orders in a sec.”

Arthur doesn’t bother looking at the menu, but Eames pores over every item like it might just be the best thing he’s ever seen.

“What do you think?” Eames asks, not looking up. “I could do with a waffle.”

“Er,” Arthur says. “It’s up to you.”

“Yes,” Eames says, nodding. “I think I’ll have a waffle.”

Their waitress reappears then, setting down their drinks with a “Coffee for you, sir,” in front of Arthur and a “Shot of health for you,” for Eames. “Ready to order?” she asks, reaching for her pad.

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m good, thank you,” he says, and she turns her attention to Eames.

“I’ll have your veggie omelet,” he says, handing his menu to her, and Arthur blinks.

“A veggie omelet,” she parrots. “And what kind of toast would you like?”

“Rye, please.”

“Sounds great,” she says and moves away.

Arthur stares at him, and Eames is well aware of it, so he does what he does and stares right back. “Asshole,” Arthur says finally, breaking his gaze to pour some creamer into his coffee.

Eames pouts. “I’m wounded.”

Arthur snorts, and it must be some sulk Eames has got going on because Arthur flashes him a rueful smile and says, “Really, Mr. Eames,” he says, and Eames doesn’t bothering telling him to drop the ‘Mr.’ It’s almost flattering, in Arthur’s condescending way. “I’m pretty sure investigators like you don’t normally associate with witnesses like me.”

Eames blinks.

And blinks.

And says, “Did I show you the wrong license?” Says, “Did Cobb say that? Because Cobb has a lot to say, and most of it isn’t true. He’s a lawyer, you see.”

Arthur shakes his head, smirking. “No,” he says, and Eames has no idea what that’s meant to answer. “Tell me, do you always give your marks first-degree burns?”

“No,” Eames says, pausing to take a good long sip of the juice. “You’re a lot less graceful than you appear,” he accuses. “So that one’s on you.”

Arthur’s lips quirk in clear amusement and just says, “I guess.”

Eames props himself up on his elbows and watches Arthur who stares back unflinchingly.

“This is where you ask me questions that lead me to incriminate myself,” Arthur prompts, and Eames thinks yeah, Arthur Darling is a total prick who’s ruining all his fun.

“I don’t ask leading questions,” Eames protests. “You don’t need my help to incriminate yourself.”

“Wait a second,” he adds.

“You’re going about this all wrong,” he says.

“What if I’ve just been watching you from afar?” he says.

Arthur opens his mouth, closes it, and frowns. He seems to do that a lot around Eames. In fact, Eames is starting to get well acquainted with Creases #1-4 on his forehead. “That’s probably worse,” he says finally. “Because then it really would be stalking.”

“But what if I said I was sincere?”

“Sincerely stalking?”

“No, Jesus, that would be creepy. I meant sincere in wanting to get to know you.”

“Are you?” Arthur asks, squinting at him, curious.

“What, creepy?”

“No, sincere.”

“Yes,” he says, nodding. “Yes, I’m sincere.”

“Well, then,” Arthur says. “If you say so.”

Eames beams at him. “I say so.”

“I’m Arthur,” Arthur says conversationally, if a bit uncertain. He holds his hand out. Eames shakes it enthusiastically.

“Eames,” he says brightly, grinning with his straw between his teeth. “But you knew that.”

*

“Are you in between jobs at the moment or something?” Eames asks as he takes a bite of his omelet. It’s a little soggy, but it tastes just fine.

Arthur shrugs, nonchalant. “I’m a writer,” he says. “I’m always in between jobs. Hazard of the occupation.”

Eames swallows and laughs appreciatively. “Have anything published?”

“Yeah,” he says reflexively, then amends, “I mean, yes, a few.”

Eames looks up at him expectantly. “Which are?” he prods.

“You’ve probably never heard of them.”

That, of course, only serves to further pique his interest. “Why?” Eames asks. “Are they dirty?” he purrs, his voice dropping low. “Do you write pornographic material?” He leers at Arthur who seems perfectly unfazed.

“The Curious Case of Ben the Button,” Arthur says smoothly. “The Adventures of Fish and Kat, Mama Caught a Mockingbird—”

“Wait a second,” Eames interrupts, frowning. “I do know those.”

Arthur smiles at him.

*

“He’s a children’s author,” Eames says incredulously after breakfast, after driving Arthur back to the body shop, after he’d sat in his car for a good half hour and mourned the loss of his once-infamous tailing abilities. Nash, ever unhelpful, noisily swallows a mouthful of lo mein pork. As some perverse form of reparation, Eames doesn’t say anything about how Arthur swirls his coffee cup three times clockwise before drinking.

“So?” Nash asks. “He rhymes, big deal. Dr. Seuss did that for years.”

Eames scrunches up his nose, determined to prove his worth. “His favorite band is Muse, and he hates the Smiths, but he has this weird obsession with This Charming Man covers.”

“That’s great, Eames,” Nash says without any real feeling. “That’ll be perfect for your wedding ceremony, but how the fuck does this help me with the case?”

“I don’t know,” Eames shrugs. “But he likes English things.”

Nash blinks at him. “But how does this help me?”

“He likes English things,” Eames repeats, slower, eyes narrowing. Nash shakes his head, and Eames groans in despair. “How is it that you get paid more than me? I mean, really.”

“It’s not that I don’t get it,” Nash says, affronted. “It’s that you really aren’t funny.”

Eames ignores him.

“Anyway,” Nash continues. “More important thing, obviously, is, will he talk to you again?”

“Yes,” Eames says, narrowing his eyes. “Did I not tell you about our date tonight? So sorry, must’ve slipped my mind.”

It’s Nash’s turn to squint suspiciously. “A date,” he states dubiously. “With you.”

“A date,” Eames affirms.

“A date,” Nash repeats. “With the guy who burned his hand and wrecked his car.”

“Love works in mysterious ways.”

Nash snorts derisively. “A date with the guy who burned his hand and wrecked his car and stalked him for a week.”

“Do you want me to help you with your case or not?” Eames retorts. “Because I can leave—I can—right now.”

Nash snorts again. “Go,” he says. “Go get pretty for your date.” The bastard actually snickers.

Eames leaves, but not without a pointed, “I’m leaving because I have to go, not because you’re telling me to.”

The drive home is relatively boring, and Eames spends most of it going over the day’s events in his head. Arthur really didn’t have any reason to accept Eames’ invitation to dinner, and to be honest, Eames hadn’t actually expected him to say yes when he’d mentioned something inane about his kitchen and tacked on a “I could show you,” as a joke.

Only, Arthur had said “You could,” and Eames had gone momentarily speechless. The shock must’ve shown on his face because Arthur had then said “You’re actually kind of interesting, Mr. Eames. I think I like you, against better judgment,” (though he’d still insisted that Eames drop him off at the shop, citing concerns for personal safety.) Which, totally wasn’t even supposed to _happen_.

Not that Eames is complaining. This makes things a whole lot easier, if Arthur has a kink for stalkers and people who crashed their cars into someone else’s just to have an excuse to keep in contact. For all Eames knew, Arthur could be playing him, could be using this whole “date” as some elaborate reverse psychology technique to make Eames leave him alone.

Which, now that Eames thought about it, may actually be something Arthur might do.

“Huh,” Eames says aloud. The traffic light in front of him turns green.

*

Arthur knocks on Eames’ door about ten minutes before he’s actually supposed to be there. Eames is, in fact, expecting this because Arthur just seems like someone who’s perpetually early.

“Hello,” he says, smiling broadly. “You’re early.”

“Hi. Yeah, sorry,” Arthur says, not sounding sorry at all. He stands there for a moment, staring expectantly at Eames, but Eames simply smiles and doesn’t move to let him in. “Can I come in?” he hazards, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Eames says. “I still have a body in here I’ve been trying to hide. And you’re early.”

Arthur laughs, soft and pure, without a hint of discomfort. Eames adds that to his Appreciation of Dry Humor file in his giant mental folder on Arthur. He also adds Dimples and Laugh Lines under Appearance because you never know, Nash might need to exploit that in open court. Or something.

He steps aside and lets his eyes rove over Arthur’s pale purple shirt with lines so neat he’s sure Arthur’s just gotten it back from the dry cleaners. He lingers a moment longer on Arthur’s ass because, well, it’s a great ass, and Eames will file that under Anatomy because Nash may need things like that. He’ll leave off on the adjectives because Nash needs everything to be stated clearly and succinctly, like a fact. As in, it’s a fact Arthur has an ass.

“Well,” Eames says, rocking back on his feet. “There’s the kitchen, and now we best be off.”

Arthur gives him a look.

“I’m a classy man, darling,” Eames says solemnly. “You shouldn’t even be here until the third date.”

“How virtuous,” Arthur remarks, bland. “I came prepared and everything.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Eames laughs. “Now come on, we’ve got places to go.”

Arthur’s smile is bemused, but he allows himself to be shown out and into Eames’ car. “If we were going to go somewhere else I would’ve just met you there,” he says, voice bitten with annoyance.

“Sorry,” Eames says (and he actually means it). “I’ll make it up to you, yeah?”

“Whatever,” Arthur answers with a shrug. “As long as you’re paying.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Eames says generously as he backs out of the driveway.

It’s not until they’re on the highway and Arthur is eyeing the passing exits with quiet apprehension that Eames even thinks to ask, “How’d you get here?”

“Uh,” Arthur says, not looking away from the window. “Come again?”

“How did you get to my house? I didn’t see your car.”

“Oh, I walked,” he says. “Can’t pick my car up for another two days anyway.”

“You walked?” Eames says, surprised. It’s a good six miles from Arthur’s house to his, but oh, right, he isn’t supposed to know that.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, and Eames can hear a slightest bit of suspicion in his voice. “It’s not that far.”

“Right,” he says. “Well, I’ll take you back later. The last thing anyone needs is you getting off-ed because I didn’t make sure you got home safe.”

Arthur snorts.

“My intentions are capable of being pure, you know,” Eames frowns. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I assure you they can be.”

“Cobb says you always have an ulterior motive,” Arthur states, though he mostly sounds amused now.

“Yeah? How is our fine state’s attorney these days?”

“Fine,” Arthur says. “His wife just got pushed off a ten-story building, but the sun still rises from the east so it’s all good.”

Eames looks at him.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” Arthur grunts, folding his arms over his chest. “The last thing anyone needs is you being responsible for my fiery death because you think you’re the only person in the world who can run a background check.”

“I don’t think that,” Eames says. He glances at Arthur. “Obviously.”

“How much do you know about me?” Arthur asks, and it doesn’t sound as accusing as it could be.

“How much do you know about _me_?” he counters. He risks another glance, and he finds that Arthur is looking back. He looks away when Arthur starts to speak.

“You’re from England, but you were born in Ireland—I’m assuming it’s because your mother’s Irish—and you moved here when you were 23, after graduating from Cambridge. You’ve been arrested on fraud and identity theft, and you were involved in some major con, but you gave up some names and you got to stay out of prison. Then you went straight and got hired by the state’s attorney office, but you only stayed for a few months before going switching sides.”

“Not bad,” Eames says thoughtfully. “You make it sound so neat.”

“The bullet points on your file were helpful.”

“Cobb made bullet points?”

“Ariadne,” Arthur corrects.

“Oh,” Eames says. “Yes, Miss Ariadne does like her bullet points, but you’re missing the part where I had to pay a ridiculous fine for my work.”

“You were committing insurance fraud that was valued at half a million.”

“The key word there, darling, is ‘valued,’ as in, not tangible. I had to pay 100 grand!”

“I know,” Arthur says. He sounds amused. “Is that what they teach you at Cambridge? How to pull of insurance fraud?”

“Well, that’s the general idea of studying law, isn’t it? If you know how to convict a bad guy, then you know how to avoid it.”

“Are you a bad guy, then?”

“Yes,” Eames says, without hesitation. “I can be.”

Arthur makes a noncommittal noise, then coughs. “So what do you know about me?”

“About you?” Eames echoes. “You’re a writer—why, I have no idea since you did your degree in chemical engineering. You’ve lived here your whole life, save for the four years you were at Hopkins, and there really isn’t any indication that you plan on moving. But I guess the most important thing here is that you’ve been friends with Cobb since high school—or rather, your parents have been friends with him since you were in high school, back when he was just starting out.”

“My history with Cobb has nothing to do with what I saw.” Arthur’s voice is neutral, and Eames wonders if Arthur is always this sure of himself. (There’s really no debate because of course he is.) “Mal was pushed, even you know that.”

“I do,” Eames admits, quiet, because he knew Mal, and he’d liked her. She was efficient, competent, and headstrong, and she pursued her cases ruthlessly. Eames knows this from experience. She’d been the prosecutor at his trial, and he remembers sitting in the interrogation room with her as she pushed folder after folder of evidence in his face until he’d cracked and taken her deal. And then she’d offered him a job.

“You knew her,” Arthur says, and it’s not a question.

“I did,” he concedes. “She was lovely.”

“Do you miss her?” Arthur asks.

“Yes.” His jaw tightens as the image of Mal’s body lying on the autopsy table flashes through his mind. “Don’t you?”

“Every day,” Arthur replies with the softest of sighs. “Every goddamn day.”

“Not that I’m not enjoying our little heart-to-heart,” Eames says, exiting the highway. “But the atmosphere calls for something a little more cheerful.”

“I could tap dance for you,” Arthur offers dryly.

Eames laughs. “I’m holding you to that,” he says. “Will you wear tights?”

“No,” and it comes so quick and vicious that it makes Eames laugh again.

“You can wear whatever you like,” Eames promises. “As long as you dance.”

Arthur snorts and looks around. “Really, Eames?” Arthur remarks. “The beach?”

Eames grins at him. “Come along, darling,” he says, shifting the gear to park. “The night is young.”

“It’s barely four,” Arthur points out, but he opens his door willingly enough and straightens the length of his shirt.

“Come along now,” Eames repeats emphatically, heading down the parking lot towards the row of shops lining the beach. “We’ve got things to do, and money to spend.”

Arthur follows him with a sigh and a smile.

*  
They have an early dinner of fish tacos and French fries, and true to his word, Eames pays for all seven dollars and forty-six cents of it.

“This is so classy,” Arthur says, sucking a drop of sauce off his finger.

Eames coughs and eats a fry.

They pass several souvenir shops and various game stands. Eames tries to get Arthur a “FRANKIE SAYS RELAX” shirt. Arthur throws it at his head.

“I’m not fourteen, Eames,” he says.

Eames pouts, but remains undeterred and holds up shirt after shirt until Arthur laughs at one that has the chemical structure of caffeine printed across the front. He even indulges Eames and changes into it.

“You look so fashionable,” Eames says approvingly, and Arthur smiles at him.

Eames takes him by some of the game stands and says “Give me a challenge, darling,” and Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Seriously, Eames? This isn’t a John Hughes movie.”

“No, it isn’t,” Eames agrees. “But pick one. I want to play, but I just can’t decide.”

Arthur makes a noise like a bitten down laugh and says, “Alright, basketball.”

“Easy,” Eames says, walking towards a stand, Arthur shaking his head behind him.

Except, six dollars later, Eames is still prizeless and frowning at the hoop. “This game is a cheat,” he says, bouncing the ball viciously against the ground.

“It is,” Arthur says.

Eames looks at him.

“I used to work here,” Arthur says, grinning. “The game’s totally rigged, but it’s not impossible to beat.”

“Could’ve done with that information sooner there, darling,” Eames grunts as prepares for another shot.

“Oh, but you’re such an intellectual. I’m sure that brain of yours knew that already,” Arthur replies, sounding so very awed.

Eames winks at him.

“Look, man,” the operator interrupts, bored. “Are you going to take the shot or not?”

“Yeah, yeah, I am.”

It takes another three before one finally goes in. The guy hands Eames a giraffe and says, “Nice shot, bro.”

“Cheers,” Eames says, tipping the giraffe at him.

“Nice shot, bro,” Arthur parrots as they walk away.

“Thank you,” Eames says pointedly, offering the stuffed animal to him. “Go on then,” he says. “There’s no room in my house for him.”

Arthur looks at it, then at Eames.

“My bed will get so jealous,” Eames continues, still holding out the giraffe.

“Yeah, alright,” Arthur says, taking it. “Thanks?”

Eames grins at him. “Not at all, darling.”

*

They watch the sun set from the pier, leaning against the railings.

“This is nice,” he says, smiling.

Arthur nods distractedly, biting his lower lip.

“What?” Eames asks.

“Nothing,” Arthur says and laughs. “Nothing, it’s just—I’ve lived here my whole life, but—” he shakes his head, grinning “—I always forget how much it fucking stinks here.”

Eames sniffs the air and makes a face. “I don’t usually notice until I think about it,” he admits.

“Well, it’s not exactly a major selling point, is it? It’s like how everyone talks about how great the city is, but no one ever mentions Skid Row.”

Eames laughs. “Point,” he allows. “Hey,” he says suddenly, standing up. “I’ve an idea.”

“Oh no,” Arthur says under his breath, but Eames keeps walking, and reluctantly, he follows.

Eames’ idea ends up being a ride on the giant Ferris Wheel at the edge of the promenade.

“This is, uh, very—” Arthur blinks. “—Are you _trying_ to be a cliché?”

“You’re breaking my poor romantic heart,” Eames laments. “Think about it, a ride under the stars? Say that isn’t a little bit appealing.”

“The stars aren’t even out yet,” Arthur complains, but allows Eames to pull him into the line.

“Even better,” Eames says, undeterred. “All the better to see you then.”

“Ugh,” Arthur groans.

*

“Okay,” Eames says, stepping out of the carriage with Arthur right behind him. “Now we can go.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “You’re so ridiculous,” he says and turns his head away, but Eames catches the flicker of a grin.

“I am,” he says, unabashed. “I’ve been told it’s endearing.”

Arthur snorts, but as they head back towards the car, he bumps his shoulder against Eames’ one time too many for it to be coincidence, and when Eames looks over to catch him in the act, Arthur stares pointedly ahead of them, face blank.

Eames would say something, tease him, probably, but they’ve made it to the car so Eames compromises by holding the door open for him, and Arthur gets in without complaint.

“This was…nice,” he says, once Eames starts the car.

“It was very lovely,” Eames agrees. “Now, where to?”

“You’re really going to pretend you don’t know where I live?” Arthur asks, cocking that inquisitive eyebrow of his.

Eames sighs. “You’re ruining all my fun,” he says.

Arthur turns his attention to the giraffe in his lap, running a thumb along its neck, and says dryly, “I’m sure.”

Eames pauses for a moment, then reaches over and presses a finger to the corner of Arthur’s mouth. “You’re so ridiculous,” he says in his best American accent, and Arthur doesn’t bother tamping down his smile.

*

Eames parks right outside the entrance to Arthur’s apartment.

“You gonna walk me to my door, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asks, smirking.

“It would be the gentlemanly thing to do,” Eames muses.

Arthur climbs out and stands on the sidewalk, expectant. “Well?” he calls. “Are you coming or not?”

Eames grins wolfishly. “You do know how to make a man happy,” he says, pressing a hand to the small of Arthur’s back. “Got everything, yeah?”

Arthur waves the giraffe. “Everything important,” he answers solemnly.

“Alright, let’s get you inside,” he says, leading Arthur in and up the steps to his floor. He reaches for Arthur’s hand, expecting it to be either ignored or swatted away, but Arthur takes it, his hand warm against Eames’ palm.

They make their way down the hall and to Arthur’s apartment before Arthur lets go in order to unlock his door. “Thank you for a good day, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, glancing back as he steps inside.

Eames leans against the doorway, pressing into Arthur’s personal space, and says, “Do I get a goodnight kiss?” he asks, grinning.

Arthur shuts the door in his face, but not before Eames hears him laugh, “Try again tomorrow, Mr. Eames.”

*

Eames does try. The next day, they go to a movie. It’s terrible, and since they’re the only ones there, they spend the entire hour and forty minutes laughing and making up their own dialogue.

But Arthur still won’t give him a kiss.

“Tomorrow, Eames,” Arthur says. They’re still standing in Arthur’s doorway, but at least this time, there isn’t a door in Eames’ face. “Try again tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Eames says, straightening up. “Good night, Arthur.”

Arthur smiles at him, the smile that makes his eyes crinkle and Eames’ grin to widen. “Good night, Mr. Eames.”

So Eames tries again. And again. He takes Arthur to parks and museums and zoos to the point where they’re so filled with inane facts about everything from Neolithic food sources to migrating patterns of pygmy owls that their next date may as well be a go at Who Wants To Be A Millionaire.

“What if I said _please_ ,” Eames asks finally, out of desperation, and Arthur laughs and says, “It wouldn’t hurt to try.” So he does.

“Darling,” he says. “Lovely, delightful Arthur. May I _please_ have a kiss?”

They’re standing by Eames’ car just outside Arthur’s building because it doesn’t matter that Arthur’s already gotten his own car back, Eames still drives them everywhere, even when the date is Arthur’s idea. Arthur is dressed up nicely because Eames had made reservations for them at the outrageously over-priced restaurant across town. Eames is dressed up nicely, too, but Eames finds himself appreciating Arthur’s clothes much, much more.

Arthur moves in to where Eames is leaning against the hood of the car, fitting himself neatly between Eames’ legs. His hands run down the length of Eames’ suit jacket, and he ducks his head slightly so Eames can’t quite see his eyes.

“I’m not supposed to trust you,” he says quietly, slipping his fingers under the lapel.

“You probably shouldn’t,” Eames says, equally quiet, placing a hand on the curve of Arthur’s hip. “It would be for the best.”

It’s rather dark out, Eames thinks as Arthur presses in closer, the light from the streetlamp nearby casting dark shadows across his face. It’s also kind of cold.

Arthur kisses Eames, then and there, four days before he’s to be called to testify at Mal’s murder trial, and twenty-three days after Eames first learned of Arthur Darling and what he meant.

Eames’ eyes slip shut, and Arthur kisses him and kisses him until his lips tingle with every touch.

Eames makes it a point to kiss Arthur every night after that. And morning. And pretty much every hour in between.

 

*

The day before Arthur is to be at court, Nash makes Eames come into the office.

“Do you have _anything_ that I can use?” Nash half-growls, when Eames greets him with an unusually sincere “Good morning.”

“I have many things,” Eames says generously. “I’m going to need a little more specificity.”

The look on Nash’s face says a lot of things, several of which seem to include a strong desire to shoot Eames in the face with an assault rifle. “I need something I can use in court,” he snarls.

“I don’t have anything,” Eames says truthfully. “Nothing on Arthur, anyway, if that’s what you want. I’ve dug up everything that I can, and I’ve asked him myself. He’s just someone who saw someone else get pushed off a twenty-story building.”

“You asked Arthur,” Nash says flatly. “About if there was anything you could use against him in court.”

“Yes.”

“Are you fucking serious right now, Eames? I don’t care, okay? You can marry him if you want, but for fuck’s sake, you have a job to do.”

“And I’m doing it,” Eames shoots back. “I got you the autopsy; I got you the police reports, the lab results; I personally interviewed the other suspects.”

“That’s not the point, Eames!” Nash says harshly. “I told you to find something on Arthur, and you haven’t done it! This is the goddamn United States of America—everyone has something to hide.”

Eames glares at him.

“Not that I’m not happy for you,” Nash relents with a sigh. “If this were any other time, any other case, I wouldn't give a shit, but we don’t have that privilege right now. You need to fucking focus.”

“I am focused,” Eames retorts. “What does it matter? The DA’s still got his prints, not to mention DNA.”

“You know it doesn’t work like that,” Nash barks back; he heaves another sigh. “Look, I get it, alright? It’s Mal. I know it’s Mal, okay? I have to defend my clients to the best of my ability. He has a right an attorney, and it’s my job to fight for him.”

“Rights? Fuck that, you know it’s because he has money. Jesus Christ,” Eames swears. “You wouldn’t even be trying this hard if he wasn’t going to land you a six figure bonus.”

“Try again, Eames,” Nash says darkly as he reaches into a drawer and pulls out a mini tape recorder.

“What’s that?” Eames asks, distracted.

“Insurance,” Nash replies, face grim. He looks at Eames. “Remember the Mendez case?”

Eames pales. “You,” he starts, gritting his teeth. “You said you got rid of everything.”

“Almost everything,” Nash corrects with a twist of his mouth. “It’s still enough to put you away for some time.”

“Son of a bitch,” Eames groans, running a hand through his hair. “You fucking son of a bitch.”

“If this case wasn’t so important—”

“Oh, spare me,” Eames gripes.

Nash gives him a look of warning and shakes his head. “Go home, Eames. Get some rest, look over your notes, and see if there’s something you might’ve missed,” he says tiredly. “I’ll see you in court tomorrow.”

*

So Eames sort of lied to Nash. He does have something on Arthur.

There’s a sealed record, dating back to 2000 with Arthur’s name stamped across it. It could mean absolutely nothing, but Eames knows how it would look to a jury—Cobb, the family friend and DA for the state; Arthur, the juvenile with reckless decisions and bad consequences.

It’s probably nothing.

There’s a knock on the door, and Eames blinks himself back to Earth. “Coming,” he calls as he pads down the hall.

It’s Arthur with a bottle of wine.

“Hello there, darling,” he says easily, stepping aside to let him in. Arthur grins at him and hands over the wine.

“Hello yourself,” he says.

Eames shuts the door and shows Arthur to the living room, handing him the remote to the TV with a “Back in a minute,” before meandering back over to the kitchen where he’s got a pre-cooked fish in the oven. There’s still a minute left on the timer so Eames gathers plates and forks and sets them on the counter. He hears the TV turn on, but the volume is low enough that he can’t quite make out the words.

The oven dings, and Eames busies himself with pulling out their dinner, adding the sauce packet as indicated, and bringing out to the living room. Arthur looks up when he walks in and moves to help, but Eames waves him off.

“We’re eating in here?” Arthur asks.

“Unless you want to eat in the kitchen,” Eames answers. “But then we’d have to stand.”

“I guess we’re eating here,” Arthur concedes, and Eames laughs. He goes to fetch the plates and utensils and returns to find Arthur settled in on the sofa, eyes fixed on an episode of Good Eats.

“Should I be offended?” Eames asks, reluctantly enthralled by the way Alton Brown is waving his fork pointer enthusiastically at a diagram of sushi.

“Well,” Arthur says, trying to look at Eames while keeping his eyes on the screen. “It’s not like anyone will ever measure up to him.”

They leave the TV on, volume muted, and their conversation somehow morphs into providing a running commentary for what’s happening on the screen.

“Look at that,” Eames says. “Look at the way he’s rolling the sushi. He’s done this before.”

“He was born in the sixties,” Arthur says, helping himself to another piece of fish. “He’s definitely done this before.”

Afterwards, Arthur helps him clean up, saying, “You cooked. I’ll clean,” and sets about scrubbing the pan, brows furrowed in concentration, sleeves rolled up past his elbows.

(A good third of the fish is thrown out because Arthur had prodded at it and said, “Eames, I think it’s undercooked.”

“If it looks red, it’s supposed to.”

“No, I mean, I think it’s still kind of frozen.”)

It’s barely eight when they finish so they play cards for the rest of the evening, because Arthur had seen his deck on the coffee table and said that he liked it.

“Are these Escher prints?” Arthur asks, amused, holding up a card. Eames answers yes; he’d gotten them from an art museum some years ago.

“Escher fan?” Eames asks.

“No,” Arthur answers. “I just know his work.”

They end up playing Go Fish because Eames doesn’t like playing poker unless he’s playing for money, and Arthur doesn’t like playing unless he knows he can win. They do, however, try to make the game a little more interesting, except a little bit of specificity only seems to draw out the game longer than a round of Monopoly.

“Do you have a two of spades?” Eames asks, frowning at the obscene amount of cards he’s holding. On the bright side, Arthur isn’t faring much better.

“Go fish.” Eames does and draws an ace of diamonds. He sighs, and Arthur smiles sympathetically. “Do you have a jack of hearts?”

“No,” Eames says, even though he does. “Go fish.”

Only, Arthur looks at him disbelievingly.

“Go fish,” Eames repeats, face innocent.

“I don’t believe you,” Arthur says flatly, lowering his cards.

“What do you want me to do? I don’t have it.”

“That’s impossible,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “You’re lying.”

“It’s Go Fish, Arthur,” Eames rejoins, exasperated. “Cheating at Go Fish is no achievement.”

Arthur snorts. “I can’t believe you,” he says, setting down his cards and scooting closer. Eames instinctively pulls his own hand to his chest. “Seven moves ago,” he says. “You asked if I had a jack of diamonds.” Arthur leans in close, crowding Eames into the sofa. “You have a fucking jack of hearts,” he growls.

Eames swallows, mouth dry, and places a hand on Arthur’s thigh, giving it a light squeeze. “Really?” he asks, voice even. “Sorry, I didn’t notice. It’s just such a demanding game.”

“Did you want to do something else?” Arthur asks, just shy of breathless.

“Why?” Eames ask, just to ask. “Did you have something better in mind?” and Arthur smiles down at him like a cat to a canary.

“I’m a writer,” Arthur says, pressing their foreheads together, mouth barely ghosting over Eames’. “I always have something in mind.” He grins then, and Eames feels a hand at the back of his neck, fingers pressing against the skin.

With his free hand, Eames presses his thumb against the corner of Arthur’s lips and says, “Yeah,” and “I like that,” but then Arthur’s lips are on his, soft but demanding, and maybe he doesn’t say anything at all.

They’ve made out plenty of times already, Eames has made sure of that, but the way Arthur is moaning into his mouth, lips red and so nicely swollen, it’s just—

“Jesus,” Arthur groans, when their hips grind together, and Eames sees stars in the corner of his eyes. “Eames,” he pants. “Eames, I will give you the best blowjob of your life right now,” he hisses, frantic, moving against him again and again, and Eames can feel his cock through the fabric and moans, “Yes, yes, fuck yes.”

Arthur wastes no time in pulling Eames’ pants down, and the next thing he knows, Arthur’s palming his cock through his briefs, and Eames is only vaguely aware of the groan that escapes the back of his throat.

Eames pulls him back in for a kiss that Arthur returns with avid enthusiasm, running their tongues against each other until Eames feels a trail of saliva running down the side of his mouth, and it’s just so much sloppier than he’d ever imagined a kiss with Arthur could get.

Arthur makes a noise that could be a whimper, and Eames groans into it.

“Fuck,” he says. “Arthur, Arthur, please.”

Arthur moves down and doesn’t tease him any more than a flick of the wrist before Eames feels the velvet heat of his mouth around the head of his cock.

“Fuck,” he swears. “Just like that.”

Except, not like that, because Arthur takes him in fully, cheeks hollowed, hands on his thighs, and he’s looking up at Eames with those brown eyes of his, so focused and determined, and he moans around Eames’ cock and the vibrations go straight through his spine.

Arthur’s hands fall away, jaw slackened, and Eames takes the hint and starts to fuck his mouth, a hand tangled in Arthur’s hair. He can see a gleaming dribble of spit running down Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur just takes it, with only a hand on the back of Eames’ knee to keep himself steady.

“I’m going to come,” he warns, but Arthur doesn’t pull away. If anything, he presses himself closer, until Eames’ breath stutters, and he says, “Oh fuck,” and throws his head back as he comes and comes, and Arthur swallows it all.

*

“Why do you have a sealed record?” Eames asks, later, when Arthur is sated and soft on the edge of sleep.

Arthur mumbles incoherently for a moment before clearing his throat and saying, “I was eighteen and stoned and probably drunk as well.”

“Oh,” Eames says.

Arthur yawns. “I was in bed with this girl—she was fifteen, a freshman, I don’t know. I don’t remember much of that night. Believe me when I say it’s one fucking blur.”

“I believe you,” he says, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s shoulder. “I believe you.”

Arthur blinks at him sleepily. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” Eames says, meeting his gaze, ignoring the way his own stomach churns in disgust.

This is a new low, even for him.

*

Arthur leaves in a rush the next morning, fumbling with his clothes while simultaneously trying to give Eames a kiss good-bye.

“You’re going to be at the courthouse today, too, right?” he asks, and Eames nods.

“Go get yourself pretty,” Eames says, giving Arthur a light tap on the ass he hurries through the door. “I’ll see you later.”

Arthur waves and doesn’t look back as he pulls out of Eames’ driveway.

*

Eames arrives early, a folder in his hand. Nash meets him just outside the courtroom.

“I got you something,” Eames says, handing him the folder.

Nash looks surprised. “Thought you said there wasn’t anything for you to find?” he says, flicking through it with interest.

Eames shrugs. “I’ve been known to be wrong on occasion.”

“It’s not much,” Nash says, reading over Eames’ notes. “But it’s better than nothing, right?”

“Yeah,” Eames says dryly. “Fucking perfect, innit?”

Nash lowers the folder, frowning at him. “Hey,” he says. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Eames smiles tightly. “Look, I trust you, but do you really need this?” he asks, lowering his voice as people rush by. “Is this really going to make any difference?”

“Probably not,” Nash says, handing back the files. “But it’s worth a shot.”

*

“The People call Arthur Darling to the stand,” the D.A., Robert Fischer, says very clearly.

Arthur is sworn in, and for a brief moment before Fischer gets up to begin questioning, he gives Eames a small smile. Eames returns it as best he can.

“Now, Arthur,” Fischer says as he stands, one hand smoothing out the front of his suit. “Can you tell us what happened on the afternoon of July 18, 2010?”

“Yes,” Arthur says. “I saw that man push Mal—push the victim off the building.”

“To be clear, you saw the defendant, Charles Sung, push the victim off the building?”

“Yes.”

Fischer smiles, a quick upturn of the lips. “Thank you, Mr. Darling,” he says. Turning to the judge, he adds, “The People rest, Your Honor.”

Saito nods. “Mr. Nash?”

Nash stands and walks to the front of the courtroom. “Mr. Darling,” he begins. “Would you say that you knew the victim well?”

“Yes,” Arthur replies without elaboration, and Eames can’t help but feel pleased that at least he’d been prepped well.

“What would you describe your relationship as?”

“We were friends.”

“And were you friends with her husband, our esteemed State’s Attorney, Dominic Cobb?”

“Yes.”

“And what was your history with Mr. Cobb?”

“Objection,” Fischer calls. “Relevance?”

“I’m getting there, Your Honor.”

“Let’s get there quick, shall we, Mr. Nash?” Saito remarks. “Overruled. You may answer the question, Mr. Darling.”

“He’s a family friend.”

“So you’ve known him for a while?”

“Yes.”

“Could you put a number on that?”

“Twelve, almost thirteen years.”

“Thirteen years,” Nash echoes. “Mr. Darling, has Mr. Cobb ever done you any favors?”

“Objection,” Fischer calls again. “Relevance?”

“Overruled,” Saito declares. “You said there was a point, Mr. Nash. I suggest now is the time to make it.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, without prompt.

“Yes, Mr. Cobb has done you favors?” Nash repeats.

“Yes.”

“Do those favors include sealing a record on statutory rape?”

“Objection! Relevance?”

“Goes to the credibility of the witness, Your Honor,” Nash replies smoothly.

Saito sighs. “I’ll allow it.”

Arthur’s face is carefully blank, but his eyes shift to Eames. They stare at each other for a moment, Arthur ruthless and Eames unable to look to away. “Yes,” Arthur says after a moment, looking back at Nash, voice imperceptibly cool. “It would include that.”

Nash nods at him. “No further questions.”

Saito turns to Arthur and says gently, “Thank you for your service, Mr. Darling. You may step down.”

Arthur does not look at Eames for the rest of the proceedings.

 

*

“Arthur!” Eames calls as the trial concludes for the day, and everyone spills out into the halls. “Arthur, wait up!”

Arthur waits, and when Eames is close enough, says, “Can’t say I shouldn’t have expected that.”

“Arthur,” he says. “I should never have given him that; I had to, but I shouldn’t have. Fuck, I never should’ve even asked you. That was a complete dick move.”

“Eames,” Arthur sighs. “You really don’t have anything to apologize for. I expected you to do your job, however unconventionally.” Except, Arthur shifts and crosses his arms, and Eames feels that same disgusting churn of his stomach he had felt last night, and he doesn’t ever want to feel that again.

“I shouldn’t have done it. Darling, Arthur, not all of it was for my job,” Eames presses on urgently. “Yes, that’s how it started—following you, keeping track of you, crashing your car—I know this looks terrible, but I swear, Arthur, I swear, I don’t do this,” he says, almost plaintive. “I don’t date the people I’m supposed to investigate, but you’re interesting and absolutely lovely, and frankly, I’ve got to thank Nash for sending me on this fucking case, but Arthur, I swear that it was a terrible, terrible mistake, and one I have no intention of repeating.”

“Eames, I know that,” Arthur says, sighing, the tension slowly ebbing out of his stance. “I’m not mad at you—well, yeah, I am, but Eames, I would never have kept seeing you if I didn’t think your interest in me was in some way genuine. I tell people things because I want them to know. I told you about that party and the girl because I wanted you to know. And you know that I could’ve had Cobb arrest you a long time ago.”

Eames stares at him and says weakly, “But you didn’t.”

“No,” he agrees. “I didn’t. Eames, I’m sorry we had to meet the way we did, but that’s all.”

“Does this mean we’re still on for tonight?” Eames asks, hopeful.

Arthur looks at him, and his face gives nothing away. Eames holds his breath up until Arthur exhales slowly and says, “Fine, yes, but not just because I already said I’d come, but because we need to have a long fucking talk and frankly—”

“Arthur,” Eames interrupts. “Arthur, you are possibly the greatest person alive, and I think I should like to kiss you right now.”

So he does, and if Arthur makes the faintest noise of protest, he ignores that because Arthur is also pulling him closer, and Eames would maybe like to keep him there forever.


End file.
